A curious occurrence was that connected with the Countess Ortenburg and
the agate bowl.
The countess was an old lady of seventy, who lived in retirement at
her château near Bregenz. Crammon, who had a great liking for ancient
ladies of dignity and worldly wisdom, visited her almost annually to
cheer her and to chat with her about the past.
The countess was grateful to him for his devotion, and determined to
reward it. One day she showed him an agate bowl mounted on gold, an
heirloom of her house, and told him that this bowl would be his after
her death, as she had provided in her will.
Crammon flushed with pleasure, and tenderly kissed her hand. At every
visit he took occasion to see the precious bowl, revelled in the sight
of it, and enjoyed the foretaste of complete possession.
The countess died, and Crammon was soon notified concerning her legacy.
The bowl was sent him carefully packed in a box. When it was freed
of its wrappings he saw with amazement and disgust that he had been
cheated. What he held was an imitation--skilfully and exactly made. But
the material was base; only the setting had been copied in real gold.
Bitterly he considered what to do. Whom dared he accuse? How could he
prove the very existence of the genuine bowl?
The heirs of the countess were three nephews of her name. The eldest,
Count Leopold, was in ill repute as a miser who grudged himself and
others their very bread. If he had played the trick, the bowl had been
sold long ago.
It was easy to find a pretext for visiting Count Leopold at Salzburg.
He sought distinction in piety and stood in favour at the bishop’s
court. Crammon thought that there was a gleam of embarrassment in the
man’s eyes. He himself peered about like a lynx. In vain.
He happened, however, to know all the prominent dealers in antiquities
on the Continent, and so he set out on a quest. For two months and a
half he travelled from city to city, from one dealer to another, and
asked questions, investigated, and kept a sharp look-out. He carried
the imitation bowl with him and showed it to all. The dealers were
quite familiar with the sight of a connoisseur with his heart set on
some object of art; they answered his questions willingly and sent him
hither and thither.
He was on the point of despairing, when in Aix he was told of a dealer
in Brussels who was said to have acquired the bowl. It was true. He
found the object of his search in Brussels. Crammon inquired after
the name of the seller and discovered it to be that of one who had
business relations with Count Leopold. The Belgian dealer demanded
twenty thousand francs for the bowl. Crammon at once deposited one
thousand, with the assurance that he would pay the rest within a week
and then take the bowl. He made no attempt at bargaining, much to the
astonishment of the dealer. But in his rage he thought: I have snared
the thief. Why should his rascality come cheaply?
Two days later he entered the count’s room. He was accompanied by a
hotel porter, who placed a box containing the imitation bowl on a table
and disappeared. The count was breakfasting alone. He arose and frowned.
Crammon silently opened the little box, lifted the bowl out, polished
it carefully with a handkerchief, kept it in his hand, and assumed a
care-worn look.
“What is it?” asked the count, turning pale.
Crammon told him how, by the merest chance, he had discovered in a
Brussels shop this bowl which, as he knew, had been for centuries in
the possession of the Ortenburgs. It had, therefore, scarcely required
the mournful memory of his dear and honoured old friend to persuade him
to restore the precious object to the family treasury whence it came.
He esteemed it a great good fortune that it was he who had discovered
this impious trade in precious things. Had it been any one else the
danger of loose tongues causing an actual scandal was obvious enough.
He had, he continued, paid twenty thousand francs for the bowl, which
he had brought in order to restore it to the house of Ortenburg. The
receipt was at the count’s disposal. All he requested of the count was
a cheque for the amount involved.
He breathed no word concerning a will or a legacy, and betrayed no
suspicion of how he had been tricked. The count understood. He looked
at the imitation bowl on the table and recognized it for what it was.
But he lacked courage to object. He swallowed his rage, sat down and
made out the cheque. His chin quivered with fury. Crammon was radiant.
He left the imitation bowl where it stood, and at once set out for
Brussels to fetch the other.